Betrayal is the Highest Form of Flattery
by Deep Roller
Summary: Someone is murdered at the Opera House! Christine and Raoul are invited back to the place where it all began, but things begin to change when someone...familiar appears.( Can you even begin to guess??) Who is the killer? Who is the victim? Find out! And p
1. Prologue: Discovery

Betrayal Is The Highest Form of Flattery  
  
By Deep Roller  
  
A/N: This should be fun to write. It was my first ever phanfiction, and it was a BALL to write. I heavily edited it to make it better and more detailed. The product of a deranged and completely biased mind right before your eyes. Before Triumph, there was Betrayal.....  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, I don't own the characters, so nyeh to you!  
  
  
  
~Prologue~  
  
They found him at dawn, his form still and cold on the floor of the foyer. The investigators could hardly look, but they had to, it was their job to puzzle out the murderer. One of them cringed as his foot found a sticky congealing puddle of crimson.   
  
"The poor man, it looks like it was a pretty painful death." One young man in a police uniform commented, looking into the glassy eyes of the victim.  
  
"Yes, indeed it does, Maurice, but he had some time to drag himself around first, didn't he? We'll have to inform his closest relations of his death. And that his murderer is still on the loose." Another officer remarked, joining in the initial body inspection.  
  
"I don't think he had any, there might be someone we could ask about..."  
  
"Hold it!" The first man said, bending to retrieve a scrap of paper clutched in the victim's palm. "I don't think there's a murderer on the loose. And there's really no one left to question, mon ami. Look at this." Handing over the slip of paper, Maurice shook his head gravely. A pity really, to see life wasted like this.  
  
~Dear World,  
  
I am so very sorry to leave you as such, but there is nothing left for me any more. She didn't love me, she told me so last night after the Opera. I had only one choice left, can you blame me? I shall miss life, but death is all that welcomes me now.  
  
Adieu...~ But the note was cut off, torn at the last word. Maurice bent down to examine the face, cringing at the look of intense anguish that creased it. He wondered who the nameless soul was, and why one woman could have driven him to such horrible heights of grief. The inquest could tell who he was, and that was set for the afternoon. Until then, there was nothing left to do. 


	2. (The Night Before The Murder...) Prepara...

Betrayal Is The Highest Form of Flattery  
  
By Deep Roller  
  
A/N: Oooh...suspense! Okay, here goes chapter one. Yes, indeed. I hope you all like it, the prologue got some positive feedback so far. Keep up with that guessing, maybe you'll figure out whodunnit!! I actually first wrote this story about two years ago, but now since I'm taking all these neat (and super hard) AP classes, I can spruce it up all fancy like and make it make sense. Lucky you! The original paper copy makes little or no sense. Well, into the Opera with you!  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, I don't own the characters, so nyeh to you! I own any characters that you don't recognize, you know, the ones that make little bit parts.  
  
  
Chapter One: Preparations  
  
The water lulled the boat under her feet as the loamy smell of the cavern took on a rather desperate scent. The man in the boat beside her put a protective arm around her waist as they rowed powerfully for the opposite shore. A trailing voice followed the boat like an anguished wraith. "Christine! Christine..." It called, the one word infused with such terrible emotions that it made her tremble. She turned to hide her face in the lapels of her rescuer when suddenly...  
  
"Come ON Christine! We'll be late! Hurry!" She had snapped again, she realized, had had one of her spells. They had stopped about a year back, but now had reasserted themselves. Christine de Chagny was sitting before her vanity mirror, a brush frozen mid-stroke through her hair. She looked in disbelief at her reflection, as if she were looking at a whole nother person.  
  
"I'm coming, Raoul!" She called back, her voice a bit unsure. What was making these flashbacks dance into her mind? She asked herself, gathering her hair into a chignon at the nape of her neck. The answer lay unobtrusively on her dressing table. A note, scrawled in the hasty handwriting of someone bent on business, inviting "Monsieur de Chagny and wife" to the premier production of "Ciya Citadel", the latest opera acquired. Raoul had been delighted, but Christine was having her doubts. And no wonder! To return to the same place that had troubled her all those years ago, to the tragedy still so fresh in her mind. She had begun to have small spells, remembering the past, and remembering the terrible tragedy she had incited. Was he still down there? The paper had proclaimed him dead, but was Erik truly gone? Quite the survivor, she didn't doubt for a second that he still lurked beneath the Opera, waiting, dejected, alone... Shaking her head violently, she chided herself and rose to pad into the drawing room, gathering her coat and sliding on her warmest pair of gloves. As she emerged, Raoul gave a small, playful half bow.   
  
"We should be going unless we want to miss Act One. Now, I know you're anxious, but I've got this in case anything actually should go....amiss." Raoul flashed a small silver Derringer into the light, confirming to Christine that she wasn't the only one with doubts. The vicomté escorted his young wife into the waiting carriage, the winter chill traipsing across her cheeks. The driver, bundled against the cold with a heavy scarf swathed across his neck, stood beside his horse in waiting. Christine lifted one gloved hand to grip the rail and hoisted herself in, feeling Raoul follow in one swift motion. Once they were in the carriage, the driver shut the door with one swift slam. Limber as a monkey, he leapt onto the seat and gathered the horse's reins. Clucking, he set the carriage into motion.  
  
Through the cobbled cold of Paris they went, Raoul looking into the night and Christine once more sinking into her dark reverie. Erik could still be there, and he could be angry with her. But what if he had died? That would be a release for him, she felt. But somehow a lingering suspicion tickled her conscience. "Raoul, do you firmly believe Erik dead?"  
  
"Of course, darling. Now, I know you have your flighty fancies, but you must rest assured that he is gone. There can be no further thought for it. Tonight is for Opera, not haunted thoughts." Her husband's remarks seemed to incur that there would be no further discussion, and when Christine bowed her head to resume her train of thought, he gave her cheek a comforting stroke. As they neared the majestic, lighted House, her doubts welled within her, surging to claim a spot at the surface. Anything could happen tonight, anything at all. The dead could rise, she felt. Stepping out of the carriage, she happened to glance at the horse, and her breath stopped in her throat.  
  
"César?" She choked out, recognizing the clean lines of the white stallion. "Is that César?" Whispering, she approached closer, heedless of anything else. The animal let out a glad whinny of recognition, his throaty call familiar in her ears. It couldn't be so. Erik's prize theft, his horse...a carriage beast? Used for taxi? Maybe that meant he really was gone, and they had raided his underground home, taking back his possessions. Or maybe it meant she needed another look at the driver. But she felt her husband's arm encircle her elbow, leading her gently but firmly away, and she watched as the reins tapped lightly against César's back and the horse moved deftly out into the night.   
  
"What's the matter, love?" Raoul asked without a terrible degree of concern as they made their way toward the Opera.   
  
"Oh nothing, I just thought I saw someone I knew..." And in a few steps they had reached the grand entrance to the looming building, the uncertainty rising to a crescendo.  
  
Out in the night, the carriage clopped away through the coldest night in Paris, the hooded driver's cloak flapping in the night breeze. 


	3. The Funniest Thing

#Betrayal is the Highest Form of Flattery  
  
By Deep Roller  
  
  
A/N: Okay, it's been a rough road for me. My fics need doctoring and attention! Also, I have a plot bunny in the works, and Phantom plot bunnies are pretty...Phantom. The main character revealed himself to me during government class. No, it wasn't Erik, he's a new guy. Mwhahahah! Okay, on with this wonderful tale of *mysterious voice* murder and intrigue.  
  
Disclaimer: In case any one actually could think I was Gaston Leroux, I will maintain that the characters of the Phantom are his and his alone. *bats off Frederick Forsythe, Andrew Lloyd Weber, and Susan Kay with a big whiffle bat* Back! Back I say!  
  
  
Chapter Two: The Funniest Thing....  
  
The nervous tension caused Christine to lapse into a slight sheen of sweat, coursing down her temples and saturating her hands. She licked her lips and sighed, fervently wishing for the night to be over. Moncharmin greeted her and Raoul warmly, and expressed sympathies because poor Richard was ill that night, and could not witness the return, if only to be an auditor, of the good miss Daaé. Or de Chagny, as now was the case. Christine smiled prettily and curtsied before Raoul was directed to their seats. As they settled into the redolent plush, Christine's gaze wandered restlessly around the lace and bright colors of the Opera House. Her eyes caught a snag of vision, and then riveted on a dreaded sight. Had she expected this? "Raoul!" She whispered, tugging on his sleeve in an almost clawing motion.  
  
"What, love? Oh, yes, Ms. Dumbleton's dress is quite a bit extravagant, no?" He chuckled softly, and turned away again. He felt another anxious claw of alarm and he spun a bit in annoyance.  
  
"Raoul! It's Box Five!" Christine pointed, her finger stabbing in the direction of the darkened box. "Empty! The managers never dare fill it up when Erik's about!" She had said it, out loud. Confirmed to herself that fear of Erik's continued existence was a real one.   
  
"Christine, darling, it means nothing." Raoul patted her tense arm soothingly, indicating the entire theater with a sweep of his arm. "Most if not all the boxes are sparsely filled, not a one is completely filled tonight. It's opening night here, but it is also is a rather cold night as well. Many dare not brave it. Also, Perdita Radcliff is not well known enough to have too much influence on people's choice to venture out in weather. So naturally it is perfectly okay for one box to be-"  
  
"But the LIGHTS!" Christine shrilled, her eyes never leaving the box. "The lights aren't up to invite people in, as they are in the other empty boxes. And the current is drawn. Maybe he IS still here!" Her hands flew to her mouth and she nibbled nervously at the velveted tips of her gloves.   
  
"No more doubts, love, it's all in your mind. The curtain is rising now, so let's enjoy." He gave her shoulder a pat and turned his eyes toward the stage. For her part, Christine tried to focus on the opera at hand, a very nice piece indeed. Perdita was a bit of a plain dancer, she didn't do many graceful leaps or spins in the Festival dance, but when she had her first aria, she really shook the audience.   
  
"I call to my love at dawn's first light, and again when day is done,  
But my idol does not answer, does not answer."   
  
Then she did an axel pirouette and jetteéd offstage with the chorus, a look of the intense heartbreak her character Lalage felt at being ignored by the only one she loved, Demetrius. At the end of the first act, a sudden resolution welled in Christine.  
  
"Raoul, I must go backstage at the show's end. I need to relive it all, it will quell my fears." Raoul gave a non committal shrug and mumbled something about an agreement. Satisfied, Christine watched the tragedy play out, the surprise ending shocking her, at least a little bit. Instead of the end she expected, the heroine killing herself over the lover, Lalage instead turned her rage upon her father, and the man's insane hatred of Demetrius. The Opera ended with Demetrius and Lalage cavorting offstage, peaceful in one another's embrace and company. Rather disquieting, in a way. At curtain call, Christine applauded Perdita wildly, smiling at the rather pretty plain girl, clearly bred in the Rue Scribe area. She carried that sturdy build in her wiry, bare shoulders. And then, abruptly, Christine dragged Raoul and headed backstage, chugging along determinedly.  
  
"Christine?" A voice in the darkened passageway ahead of her exclaimed in wonder. "Christine, come back?" And before the woman had any time to react, a sprightly form had flung itself onto her and was hugging her tight. Christine soon realized it was none other than Meg Giry. The two soon laughed and hugged again, Christine now joining in the happiness.   
  
"Meg! I wouldn't have expected you'd still be here!" Christine exclaimed, holding the wrists of the excitable woman.   
  
"I'm ballet mistress now, Christine." Meg relayed, a twinkle in her bright wonderful eyes. Those eyes flickered to the scrolled golden band encircling her former ballet companion's slender finger, and she nodded. "To Raoul de Chagny, no doubt? She asked with a jesting friendliness Christine beamed at.   
  
"Yes, Meg, to Raoul." She smiled, and then looked down the corridor. "Would it be alright if I could see my old room? I miss it a bit."   
  
"It's the funniest thing, Christine." Meg whispered, lowering her voice as though in secret. "The door has been locked tight since the day you left. Not even the locksmith, mister DuBois, can open it." A flutter thrilled Christine's heart and she added another tally to her inner suspicions.   
  
"May I see it all the same? It's been so long, you know." Consenting, Meg led the way. Raoul started to follow alongside Christine, but she held him back gently. "Stay, Raoul. I want to revisit my memories, but I'd like to do it in private. If that's alright with you?" She asked sweetly, her eyes pleading a bit.  
  
"If you like, whatever will assuage your fears and prove to you that Erik truly is gone, no matter how much you seem to think otherwise." With a shrug, Raoul put an arm around Christine's waist before he stretched and sat in the foyer and watched her disappear down the hallway.   
  
The door was just as it had always been, paint scraped away, brass knob shining dull with the streaks of sullen green in it. Christine blinked and turned to Meg. "It's been sullen with me ever since you left, like I said. But you can stay here and reminisce all you want outside. Remember when-"  
  
"Madame Giry?" A voice piped behind Meg and Christine smiled. She remembered another time when Meg had called her mother that. "Madame Giry, what shall I do with these flowers?" The girl turned out to be Perdita Radcliff, her brown eyes and frank dark hair marking her out, even onstage. She cradled in her arms a bouquet of roses and baby's breath, some of the petals clinging to her pale blue ballet outfit. Christine waved to Perdita and she waved hesitantly back.  
  
"Come with me, Perdita. This is my friend, Christine Daaé, she used to sing here, just like you did tonight."  
  
"Your singing was wonderful, Perdita. It moved me, truly." Christine confided with a genuine smile, earning a flush from the girl.  
  
"I've seen you sing, Madam Daaé, it is to hear angels call. Praise from you is too much." Meg winked at her friend before she and Perdita shuffled off. Christine was left with a warm glow and a small smile. That girl was going to be talented one day. Perhaps Erik was teaching her? No! Erik was gone, gone for good! Why had the door locked? Perhaps Christine had left the key in the room when she had shut the door for the final time. Only one way to find out. Timidly, she reached out one hand and grasped the cold handle, treating the operation as though it were snake charming, rather than opening a stupid door. She frowned at herself and resolutely turned the knob, breath held sharp against her ribs. 


	4. Darkness in Burrow

Betrayal is the Highest Form of Flattery  
  
By Deep Roller  
  
  
A/N: Well, it took me awhile to unearth the next bit of this fic, but I have found it for you, so enjoy with relish. I know I do. And maybe a bit of ketchup too....  
  
  
Disclaimer: *mechanically* I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any characters held within. Except Perdita Radcliff, who is a trifle. Some day I will own you all. *mechanical laughter* Hah. Hah. Hah.   
  
  
"And a voice, with the fear of a child, asking..." -from The Lion King on Broadway  
  
  
  
  
The knob twisted easily and the door swung open to reveal the exact room Christine had left two years past. There were a few cobwebs, granted, but everything else seemed to be the same. She entered the dressing room and closed the door softly behind her, blinking as she looked around. What had she expected? Fires? Bandits? .....Erik? She chuckled softly to herself at her foolish fears and sat down on her old bed with mixed emotions. And then, her eye caught it.   
  
A very ordinary envelope, thrust between the hinges of the door and closed with a very simple seal. In a foggy haze, Christine rose and went to the envelope. She opened it with trembling fingers and read in disbelief.   
  
~Dearest Christine,  
  
Surely you know by now child that I am not dead, you have sensed it in some fashion. I overheard you on the cab ride to the Opera House, you see. Yes, that was me, I must admit, and César too. It has been a long two years, Christine. I was torn with grief when you left, but time has dulled the pain to a blunt point, and I wish merely to speak with you. We have much to discuss.  
  
If you want to see me, tap the mirror and call my name three times.   
Erik~  
  
She blinked several times, her breath hitching high in her throat. This was unreal! How could he be alive, after all that time, and after the papers proclaimed him dead? "Perhaps I am dreaming." She spoke aloud giddily, grasping for the desk to have something solid to prop up on. "Dreaming, and there is nothing to this. Nothing." Her hand flew to her mouth in her customary nervous gesture, and she nibbled a bit too hard on one glove, a small stab of pain lancing her finger. If that pain was real, then perhaps she wasn't dreaming. Only one way to find out. Holding her chin up high, Christine approached the mirror.   
  
"Erik." She said quietly, as though murmuring to a person in close proximity with her. Shaking her head, she spoke again, with a bit more conviction. "Erik." Still nothing, but he had said to speak three times. "Erik." She spoke solidly again, and waited. The minutes ticked by, and nothing happened. Just as well, she thought, silly dreams are after all just dreams. Then her lip began to quiver, and she began to shake. "Erik, come out." She called, more insistently, as though pleading. "Erik!" She pounded the mirror, and then whirled and flung herself on the bed. He really wasn't coming after all! A bitter sense of guilt washed her throat into spasms of breath, and in her already emotionally strung state, it was just too much. Tears welled and brimmed at her eyes before washing across her cheeks. As she lay there sobbing, a strange glow emanated from the mirror, and soft sounds could be heard issuing from it. Singing!   
  
"I call to my love at dawn's first light, and again when day is done, but my idol does not answer, does not answer..." The words from the opera! Sung so beautifully they seemed to pull the girl from her crouched and coiled state into one of transfixed wonder. And suddenly, there he was. His cape, his mask, it was Erik. Erik! Another bout of sobs shook Christine as thoughts flew through her head. Thoughts she was sure he could sense in her. Erik, alive and well, and here. She could hardly believe it. First, he had been believed dead, but now, now he was alive. Which do you want him? She chided at herself angrily, still in tears on the bed. Distressed, Erik walked close to her and reached out to touch her hair, holding back at the last instant with a short jerk of his hand. "Child, why do you cry?" He asked softly, knowing full well why she cried.  
  
"Erik...Erik, I...." But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell him that the instant she looked at his face as he came through the mirror and the instant she felt his presence, she regretted ever fleeing from him for Raoul. And at the same time, she wanted to run, run from everyone and everything, to hide from it all. She couldn't tell him that for all these feelings, she was guilty and angry at herself. And she was still afraid of him. All the regret, all the misunderstandings and betrayals seemed to slap her in the face like a gigantic steel hand, and she gasped and crumpled. Say it! Say you're sorry, say you regret ever leaving this place! You know it's true, you stupid, stupid girl. A caustic part screamed at her, disgusted with her behavior.   
  
"Yes, Christine?" Erik asked, puzzled and concerned. She was having fits! Shaking and clutching spasmodically at her pillow, she wouldn't look at him.  
"Erik, I'm sorry. I'm.... I miss..." Looking up, the tears ran down her face in droves. She felt a strong finger lift her chin and bring it to meet a set of eyes filled with tender concern and acerbic, intense focus. "Erik, I'm so sorry. I miss you, and I've had regrets, but I know you'll not have me back, I've been so wicked to you. God help me I've been so wicked! I'm afraid, afraid of you, of him, of everything." She squeezed her eyes shut to prepare for his cold rebuttal, or his insistence that she leave at once. He was stunned, utterly and completely stunned. Here he had prepared for rejection and perhaps anger. Fear, most definitely. And she was afraid. But she was asking his forgiveness through her fear! He shook his head in bemusement and chuckled softly.   
  
"My dear, you are no more wicked than a butterfly. And I do forgive you, but..."  
  
"How could you? How could you forgive? Your heart, the loneliness, the darkness has burrowed in." She interjected.  
  
"Despite your morbid thoughts child, you are not my whole world. There are things outside you. The darkness had already well burrowed in before you came along." Erik intoned with coldness in his voice. It was so strange, still. Like the first break of a bone, it hadn't had time to sink in. He was trying to separate himself from emotion. It was the only way. This could be a trap. But her eyes genuflected before him so demurely, and her hands shook so, that he found it hard to believe. She was not his whole world, but she did make up an incredible part of it. Like removing the stars. The night would still soldier on, but it would not burn.  
  
"I am sorry. I deserve to die. It came to me, when I saw you, it came to me. I was the heartless one, I drove whatever it was in you that fueled your temper to cause your actions. Or if I did not, I still feel it is so. Do not say you are sorry, for I have returned to you in my dreams, and the dead have risen. We must tell Raoul, we must." She spoke quickly, hardly pausing for her breath to leave her throat. She wouldn't let him say no, her heart was speaking now. She had returned.  
  
Erik sat down slowly, lowering himself to sit beside Christine, feeling her hesitate, but remain. She was still looking down, and to him it seemed as though she were trying to make a decision. He had his own to make. Could he....could he really have her with him? Or would she only rend the last shreds of his sanity and heart to ash? "Christine, child. I will be behind you in whatever you do. No matter how the world tilts, I will always be behind you." He was surprising himself, and he certainly surprised her, for her eyes were incredibly wide. Then, in the next instant, her arms were around him, and she pressed her face into his shoulder. Caught off guard once again, Erik had little else to do but to tentatively put his own arms around her. They were shadows at first, but Christine could feel him slowly, slowly strengthen the embrace. She smiled into his shoulder and enjoyed the unexpected security being with him brought.   
  
"We must tell Raoul, we must." A sudden, terrible image flashed into her head. The muzzle of the Derringer, the muzzle of the open grave. "He will not understand." She murmured, her eyes dancing to the desk and the opened letter. "He will not. But I have a plan, Erik." She smiled, her fingers whispering over the back of Erik's neck, causing him to shiver noticeably. Her eyes met his with some unbidden, almost gleeful spark. It was more strength than she had shown that whole night, and more initiative. Sitting together, she rested her head on his shoulder and delineated the course of action.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Okay, yes, this is an "Erik take me back" story. Like many others. But I am not like everybody else. So I have plans....*grins* Next chapter very soon. Thanks to everyone who has already reviewed, it always thrills me that people will take time enough to voice whatever opinions they have, good, bad, or indifferent. Need I remind you that flaming only burns a chandelier brighter and drops it faster? : ) 


	5. Shadows Shift

Betrayal is the Highest Form of Flattery  
  
By Deep Roller  
  
A/N: First, I shall dispel some confusion, which was my fault in the first place. The prologue is the morning after all the other chapters. It was a new technique I was trying out. I wondered if people could identify the body and the body's killer before it was actually revealed. Hey, it worked for some authors. Well, while I was strapped to the dentist's chair today, listening to their plans for extracting my remaining wisdom teeth and leaving a hole in my mouth, I finished my next chapter. Oh yes, and again this situation is highly improbable, but I was younger and more vengeful. Enjoy my friends, for one half of my mouth I cannot feel at the moment.  
  
Disclaimer: If it was mine, the Phantom phan mafia would come and eat me. What Phan mafia, you ask? Mine! I have started the phan mafia, dedicated to ridding the world of those who would question the Phantom's greatness. Or at least converting them. Care to join me? Ah, well then. *sighs and walks away*  
  
  
  
"The man that hath no music in himself,  
Nor is moved with concord of sweet sounds,  
Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;  
The motions of his spirit are dull  
And his affections dull  
Let no such man be trusted."-William Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice  
  
  
  
The foyer was bathed in soft light, and the flickering shadows and talk of relieved stagehands, tired dancers, and others. Raoul sat, his eyes watching everyone else idly as he thought on the night. Christine had been acting somewhat flighty, some ungrounded fear hindering her logical thoughts lately. The episodes had become more frequent of late, and it had taken all power of persuasion he possessed to get her to the Opera that night. But something nagged at him, something he wouldn't dream of acknowledging around her, or even aloud at all. It was this something that caused his hand to gravitate towards the Derringer that night, the same thing that made him snap his head up at every slight sound. Maybe, maybe she IS right, and Erik is indeed still lurking about, he mused to himself, idly twining his hands together. The fact was, Raoul had always been a tad jealous of Erik's attentions. But that was before he had known even the identity of her admirer. When he would take Christine on a ride through the park, and talk with her, she always had a dreamy, rather unfocused look to her. As though her eyes and mind were with another.  
  
And even when he HAD found out this stranger's identity, when he found her crying in her dressing room, his jealousy rose. Why poor Erik? Why no thought of his endeavors? Had he not a pure and honest love for her? And yet, she was mooning over another. And then he had learned the truth, and he learned too, that if she was to stop thinking of Erik, he must get her away. Get her to a safe place. He almost wasn't hearing her then, how she talked of his misfortune. All he seemed to hear was that she leaned more for Erik's cause than his own. But then he had dove deep into the depths of the Opera to save her, when the madman had abducted her, he had gone through fire and pain for her, risked his very life, nearly burned and then drowned alive. She was his, then, when Erik finally came to his senses and let them go in peace, she was his. And then she began to drift away, to dream of HIM again. After all of his efforts, she still could not let go. He just didn't understand it. But he was beginning to feel that her allegiance was shifting. He had fought for it once before, and he could do so again. That was why he brought the Derringer.  
  
"Raoul?" A soft voice interrupted him, and a timid shadow drifted into the foyer to blend with his own. "Raoul, are you there?"  
  
"Christine, I am here. Yes, are you ready to go?" He lifted his head to see her, bracing against a pillar with one hand, bathed in shifting shadows from a nearby open doorway, and the interminable darkness at her back. Rising, he couldn't erase a strange chill of foreboding that played gleefully on his spine.  
  
"I must talk with you, Raoul. It is about Erik-"  
  
"He is dead." Raoul interjected swiftly and coldly. "He is dead and you and I both know it. Didn't your visit prove that?"  
  
"No, it did not." Christine replied firmly, taking a step forward, her eyes locked with his. "It did not prove that one bit."  
  
"Well, you must take-"  
  
"I will take nothing from you, but you will listen to me. You never have, not fully. I was always to be humored, pampered, coddled, rescued. Never listened to, never taken seriously. I will not be silenced. Now, Raoul, you will listen. Erik is alive, and I have discovered that I belong here, this is my place. I should have known it long ago." Raoul swallowed hard, his knuckles gripping each other to show white. His eyes flashed with a war-like vengeance that Christine had glimpsed years ago, when she had confided in him. He had shot at shadows then.  
  
"Where is he? Where is Erik? What has that horrible man done to you now? Hypnotism no doubt." Raoul demanded in a growl, the hand in his coat pocket seeking the sleek assurance of rebuttal.   
  
"Raoul, Erik wants merely to speak with you. It is my decision, and mine alone. It was none of Erik's doing. Listen well, Raoul. I want nothing bad to happen to you, nothing, please, please listen. Listen to Erik." She took on a tone of pleading, a tone that suited Christine more than her firmness, in Raoul's opinion. He gave her a dismissive wave and shoved her aside in his search of the inkiy dark.   
  
"Erik! Erik come out, come out I say! What have you done to my wife?!" His harsh voice grated into the silent velvet of the dark corridor.  
  
"I am here, monsieur le vicomte, I am here. And I assure you, I have done nothing to Christine, merely listened to her." Erik stepped majestically into the shadows, his cloak sweeping behind him like an errant shadow hurrying to cling with its brothers. The two men stood face to face, and Christine's eyes flicked from one to the other in agitation.  
  
"Liar!" Raoul hissed, crouching a bit. Erik took a step forward, a slow step forward, but it was enough. The Derringer flashed in the light, swift and deadly silver as its muzzle was aimed at Erik. It roared its triumph as he was struck down. Christine screamed and ran towards his fallen form, bending to whisper to him, her lips barely moving. She ran her hands over his mask, putting her head against his and lifting him up slightly, before setting him down. Erik lay still and quiet on the foyer floor as Christine keened softly over him for a moment. Raoul stood proudly, looking at the Derringer and nodding his satisfaction. He nodded when he saw Erik lie still as he re holstered his gun. "It is done Christine. I have freed you from this monster at last."  
  
Christine rose to her feet, her face hidden for a moment, and a look of intense grief washed across it before calm smoothed it. She walked toward Raoul, a last look at Erik before she made her way into her husband's arms. "Yes, you have dear. I never have to worry about the monster again." She whispered silkily, her arms going around his neck. He never felt her pull the letter opener from her glove, but in one swift instant, she had plunged into his neck, where it lay buried hilt deep. A slow trickle of blood tickled from the spot as she stepped away from the circle of his arms. "You didn't listen, I warned you, you didn't listen." She murmured, watching as his eyes widened, and he struggled painfully to breathe.  
  
"Christine...Chris..." his voice became something like a gurgle as he tried weakly to yank the object from his neck, only causing a fresh gout of blood to dribble down his collar. He sank to his knees, his eyes still trained on her as breathing became nearly impossible. On the floor, he watched in fascinated horror as Christine walked to the fallen form of Erik and helped him to his feet. Erik scowled for a moment and brushed his cloak off before the two shared a little chuckle. And then they both made their way to where he lay.  
  
"Poor Raoul, I'm so sorry it had to end this way, I really am." Christine turned into the circle of Erik's arms for a moment, peering back at him with something like heavy, but distant pity. Raoul crawled closer, but then stopped, his eyes going incredibly wide as the struggle to breathe became too much. He reached out a hand and it halted midspan, as his form went completely limp. Christine bent forward to slip a piece of paper between his fingers before Erik helped her up and they left Raoul in the empty halls and echoes of his own dead vanity.  
  
  
  
The night was exceedingly cold, but the statues did not feel the cold. Stars and wind were nothing to them. It seemed the same of the two forms huddled on the roof, under one cloak.  
  
"But how did you know? How did you know he would shoot?" Erik murmured, his eyes on the glimmering lights of Paris.  
  
"The Derringer, I saw him bring it, and he has always been terribly impulsive. Two years of living with him have taught me that. A wonder I didn't learn it sooner. And you, what was it that you had?" Christine turned her eyes up, to the indefinite form above her, before giving up and merely resting against him, letting his voice massage her ear with sound.  
  
"When you're an Opera Ghost, you get used to being shot at. You have to develop ways to protect yourself when not at your quickest. Bullet-proof padding is a wonder, but rather heavy." He smiled quietly, resting his head on top of Christine's. "Will they suspect you?"  
  
"The note I left, it tells all without naming names. I know his handwriting, I can match it as my own. It really was the only way, I knew from the moment I thought of speaking with him. If he had let me go, he would be alive. If he had been nice to you, he would be breathing." Her eyes changed visibly in the darkness, taking on the spark they had first grown in Erik's presence. Even he could feel the change. And then she spun to face him, her eyes never leaving his as her slender fingers reached to remove the mask. His hand stopped her, gently, but then followed hers as they slid it from his face together. But then Erik dropped his eyes. "No," she whispered, lifting his chin up with her hand, her eyes tender, "don't be afraid."   
  
"I thought you were the one who was afraid." He murmured somewhat meekly, looking at her demurely. Her only answer was to lean close and kiss him firmly, pulling tight the cloak around them to connect them. When she finally drew back, she was smiling sadly.  
  
"I was not afraid, I was foolish and stupid, I know now. It was of myself that I was afraid, it was of everything I had ever done to wrong you. I was stupid then, a stupid girl to run from you. I didn't know what I had until I was torn from it. And I let it rule me, this fear and this stupidity." She growled at herself, before gazing at him again. "Erik. I broke your heart. I have come to see if I can help to mend it again." Her fingers ran over his face slowly, and she looked at him thoughtfully, tenderly.  
  
"You may stay as long as you wish, forever if you wish. It was only in dreams that you returned to me. Only in dreams. I had you caged, but when I set you free, you returned...Christine, it is like a dream to me." Timidly he reached forward to her, his lips meeting her forehead softly, and she smiled, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight, as if not to let go. The two of them stayed motionless for a time on the roof of the Opera house, under Apollo's Lyre and under the gaze of benevolent stars. And then, in the blink of an eye, they had vanished into the deep deep night, together.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mush! Mush! I was a very demented little eighth grader when I wrote this, but I thought Christine needed girl power. It's been heavily embellished of course. And I enforced my own sadistic Raoul on you people. I can't tolerate a Raoul like that unless he's gonna die in the immediate future. Well, I hope you liked my first ever phic that I wrote so long ago. And it wasn't my last, either! 


End file.
